This is a story from back when my wife used to work as a tour conductor for a travel agency. There's a depopulated village in Tokushima Prefecture called Kiyodaira, and she went there to accompany a company's employee trip. It was a village with almost nothing except nature. Most of the clients were young office ladies, accompanied by only one middle-aged male boss. It was a relaxed three-day, two-night trip—having barbecues by the river and just walking along mountain trails.
It seemed like some kind of festival was going on, because villagers wearing traditional samurai armor were riding horses and walking along the mountain paths. The costumes looked extremely authentic, and the office ladies were impressed and took pictures like crazy. On the bus ride back, one of the office ladies suddenly fell ill, started foaming at the mouth, and looked to be in a really bad way, so they called an ambulance and she was rushed to a nearby hospital. Her male boss went along to accompany her.
After that, the atmosphere inside the bus turned unpleasant—I can't explain it well, but a bad vibe filled the air. There was a sickening presence coming specifically from the seat where the hospitalized office lady had been sitting, and no one would even look in that direction. The passengers sitting next to her and in the seats before and behind her moved to different seats. My wife tried her best to liven things up by talking about various things, but the inside of the bus was enveloped in a gloomy atmosphere, and some of the office ladies even started crying.
Since my wife had to stand where she could look over the whole bus while talking, the area around that seat inevitably kept coming into her field of vision. Even as she tried desperately not to mind it, her eyes kept drifting toward that seat. Eventually, when they arrived at a parking area, all the office ladies rushed out to get some fresh air, and the driver went to the restroom as well.
My wife was left alone inside the bus and decided to walk over to the seat with that awful vibe. Underneath the seat, a Polaroid photo had fallen. It was a picture of the office lady who had been taken away, posing together with one of the villagers in samurai armor. My wife quickly threw the photo into a trash can at the parking area.
The photo had captured the exact moment a samurai warrior rushed toward the office lady, his swung-down sword sinking deep into her neck.
After that, my wife quit her job right away. She kept the photograph a secret and never told a single soul until she told me. Later on, I looked into Kiyodaira Village myself, but there are no festivals involving samurai armor, nor is there any such custom whatsoever.